To celebrate Halloween 2011, Dreamspinner Press invited readers to come trick-or-treating on their web site for something special: thirty-one of their authors (including me) donated free short stories. The stories are no longer available on Dreamspinner’s site, but my story ‘Finals’ is now available for you here! Enjoy!

© Copyright 2011 Lydia Nyx

“You know, you’d probably have a better time if you exchanged that for a bottle of this,” Vince said as he shook his half-empty bottle at Connor. The golden fluid inside the bottle sloshed against its glass prison and left sludgy white foam up the sides.

“Get that out of my face.” Connor waved a hand, the other around his can of Diet Coke. “It’s cheap piss.”

“It’s imported!”

“It’s piss.”

The thick air inside the bar formed a buzzing cocoon of voices and music around them. Their closest friends were nearby, at various tables and standing about, then further out were people Connor knew by faces but very few by name. The whole university was there it seemed. Now that finals were over, everybody was going out for a drink or ten to relax.

“Why have you been in such a bad mood?” Vince asked.

“I’m not in a bad mood! Why do you always assume if I’m not rolling around on the floor drunk or lighting something on fire I’m in a bad mood?”

“You aren’t upset about it, are you? I mean, you’re not just humoring me, are you?” Vince was gazing at him in concern, worry glinting in his eyes.

“I told you I have no problem with it. I’m happy for you. I don’t give two shits who you fuck. I really don’t care what they are, either.”

Vince snorted. “What they are. You make him sound like an animal.”

“Well, he can be a huge ass.”

Vince grinned. They’d had this conversation no less than three times in as many days and Vince seemed to remain convinced Connor’s odd disposition had something to do with Vince’s confession—a confession Connor hadn’t been surprised by at all. The subject of Vince’s recently cracked-open secret sat across the room and neither of them had looked at each other for the past twenty minutes. They did a lot of that, not looking at each other; perhaps because their faces lit up like summer when their eyes did meet and no one in the vicinity had to wonder.

Connor on the other hand couldn’t quit staring, just over Vince’s left shoulder, toward the bar.

“I just don’t want you to feel odd around me,” Vince said.

Connor sighed. “I swear to sweet Uncle Jesus if you continue to worry over this, I’m going to kick you in the nuts and take your wallet.”

Vince laughed. “I’m going to get another beer. You want some more diet cocaine?”

“No, I’m good.” Connor drummed his fingers against the can.

Vince got up and made his way to the bar, waylaid numerous times by drunken friends. When he finally did get there he glanced toward the young man across the room with the mop of curly dark hair and their eyes met for a moment, faces lighting up with secretive grins. Connor smiled as well, propping his chin on his hand, and redirected his stare to its original roost.

The object of Connor’s watchful gaze finally turned away from the bar, tall and lanky, wearing a blue button down shirt beneath his black peacoat. Thick, dark blond hair fell across his forehead and framed a pale, delicately-structured face. As he crossed the room he glanced at Connor, their gazes meeting for a moment, making the pool of Diet Coke in Connor’s stomach churn. The other man looked away and pushed through the crowd, disappearing toward the bathrooms.

An hour later Vince announced he was suitably bored enough with the bar to call it quits. Connor followed him out, caught in a whirlwind of smoke and lively chatter from smokers hanging around outside as they stepped into the wintry night. Vince’s boyfriend, Paul, came with them. Connor saw Vince’s hand brush against Paul’s under the cuffs of their coats before they took a step away from each other.

“More partying?” Vince asked. “Back at the dorm?”

“Count me out,” Connor said.

“You know I’m in,” Paul said.

Connor was just about to head for his car when he felt someone brush past his shoulder. He glanced over to see a black peacoat and blond hair fluttering against a smooth, elegant throat. Connor watched him go, insulated by his cadre of friends and a cousin who had come to visit him during Christmas break.

“Wet blanket,” Vince chided Connor. “I’m going at it until I pass out.”

Back at the dorm, Connor made his apologies.

“I’m wiped out from all the studying this past week.” Connor pulled against Vince’s fingers digging into his arm and against his even more iron-gripped pout.

“Just for a bit?” Vince asked. “Who’s going to hold my hair while I puke?”

“I think you have someone to do that for you now.”

“Who’s going to hold his hair while he pukes?”

“You can hold each other’s. You know, puke in stereo. Just try to time it.”

Vince squeezed his arm tighter. “All right. You really aren’t strange?”

Connor grabbed him and attempted to get a knee up against his nut sack. Vince laughed wildly.

“I mean it,” Connor said. “I’ll take your wallet!”

Vince hugged him and kissed his cheek firmly. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Dear friend.”

“Be good, stupid,” Connor told him.

Vince smiled at him and hurried off toward his room, where Paul was waiting. Connor headed to his own room, one floor below.

The hallways were quiet and empty, as was the elevator, just his own reflection in the mirrored wall to keep him company. He smoothed his hands over his worn leather jacket and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He looked unkempt. He felt unkempt, out of sorts.

His roommate had left the day before to visit his parents over Christmas break. Connor switched on the light in their room, revealing his own messy bed, his clothes strewn across the floor, his books piled up on his desk. He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and peeled his coat off. As he did, he noticed the lingering, stale scent of what had happened on his sheets the night before: faint, bitter remnants of sweat and cigarette smoke and things unsavory and secret.

He lay on the bed, stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, staring at the yellow pool of light cast on the ceiling by the wall lamp. He swore the bed was haunted, full of whispers and subtle movements. When he closed his eyes his senses burned with memory—the sticky feel of sweat under his fingertips, the outline of narrow hips and shoulders in the darkness. Then the silence afterward, more ponderous and terrible than the always-question: Why do we keep doing this?

Connor was afraid of evil spirits, the vexing ones that crept in during the night when he was alone.

He had just dozed off when a soft knock came at the door, jerking him out of a dream of tangled fingers under the cuffs of coats. By the time he stumbled blearily to the door he had convinced himself it was Vince, come to ask if he was really, really, really all right with Paul and him being gay. This time Connor was going to beat him up and take his money, and use it to buy blueberry waffles in the morning.

It wasn’t Vince.

Taylor had shed the peacoat, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. He looked nervous.

Connor leaned against the doorframe, rubbing a hand over his face. He wanted to ask: It hasn’t been long enough since your last visit, has it? or Did you get lost or something?

Instead he asked, “What?”

“I left my watch,” Taylor said.

Connor hadn’t noticed, but then, he hadn’t looked.

“Did you?” Connor looked back into the room. “I didn’t see it. Maybe you…”

His voice trailed off as fingers touched his. Connor turned to look at him and Taylor stepped closer.

“Can I come in?”

“Why?” Connor asked. It was the word that started every sentence they said to each other. Why do you look at me like that? Why do you come to my room? Why do you get up and leave when you’re through with me?

There was no answer, though. The questions were rhetorical, a monologue, a soliloquy. Shakespeare, in modern form with all the drama and twice the angst. What light through yonder window breaks? It was the east, and Taylor was twisting his heart again, held tight in slender fingers.

Connor reached over and switched the light off, letting the evil spirits in.

Something caught Connor’s attention later: the feel of a slender wrist under his hand, pressed tight against the bed. He could feel the bones, delicate under thin skin. His whole mind focused on that wrist despite what was going on elsewhere with his body. He wanted to squeeze and hold it there until Taylor couldn’t move, until he couldn’t get up.

In the humid darkness after, Connor stared up at the ceiling and rubbed his fingers together, feeling those bones again.

Tonight Connor sat up first, found his shirt and put it on, so he wouldn’t have to lie there and feel Taylor get up. Taylor didn’t get up though, even when Connor sat there for a few minutes, staring into the darkness and waiting. When he finally sat up it was so inevitable it was comforting, but when he slid his arm around Connor’s shoulder and rested a hand on his chest, Connor’s heart nearly stopped.

“Connor,” Taylor whispered.

“Shut up,” Connor answered back. “Don’t.”

Taylor was still, his body tense. He whispered again, “It’s harder now. Seeing them. Knowing.”

“We’ve always known.”

“But now we see.”

Connor found it hard to think with Taylor’s hand there, over his pounding heart like it might stay, like it might stay forever. He pictured Paul’s hand over Vince’s heart. Surely in their own darkness they were together like that, oblivious to evil spirits.

“I’m happy for them,” Connor said.

“Did you tell Vince about us? To make him feel better?”

“No.”

Conner knew what Taylor feared. There was nothing more painful than a mirror, especially one that showed you what things could be like if you weren’t frightened. It wasn’t even that they were both men. Taylor had told him from the start he had a fear of commitment, that he wasn’t sure of himself let alone someone else.

Taylor lingered a moment longer, hurting Connor worse than when he just got up and left. Finally he drew back, his arm slipping away. But Connor couldn’t take it, not tonight, not after secret smiles and stereo puking, that terrible mirror. He reached back and caught hold of a slender wrist, squeezing delicate bones.

“Tay,” he whispered. “Don’t go. Stay with me.”

There was silence, no movement, just Connor’s pounding heart and the bones of Taylor’s wrist grinding under his fingers.

“Why?” Taylor asked softly.

“Why?” Connor found Taylor’s pulse under his thumb, soft and fluttery like the wings of a hummingbird. “Because. I want—”

“Why didn’t you ask me before now?”

Silence again, in which Connor found no answer to the question, no limit to the amount he could be stunned, taken aback, bowled over. He let go of Taylor’s wrist and Taylor didn’t get up.

“They frighten me with possibility,” Taylor said. “It stunned me into realization. Vince keeps asking me if I’m all right with it. How can I tell him? And how can I tell you I think I’m ready for what they have?” A soft, nervous laugh.

Somewhere between not daring to hope and realizing the impossible, Connor found himself lying back on the bed again, Taylor’s head on his shoulder, Taylor’s arm draped across him.

“I’m scared of the dark,” Connor admitted.

“I know,” Taylor said. “I didn’t forget my watch.”

“I know.”

Taylor sighed softly. “Can you be patient with me? Hold my hand?”

“I’ll never let it go.”